


If the Lights Go Out, I Have a Candle(s)

by collarsandplaid



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: But also Full of Heart, Candles, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, Gaby is Savage, Gen, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Luckily he has Good Friends, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Illya, Rain, Slight Illya/Napoleon, Solo has an Episode, Wet Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 07:55:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14256432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collarsandplaid/pseuds/collarsandplaid
Summary: There was an electric snap as one light flashed and another dimmed. The bulbs clicked and popped as the lights sputtered. A blue spark zapped at the base of one of the bulbs and this one instantly turned black and died.Napoleon couldn’t look away. And he couldn’t control his breathing.(Napoleon suffers from a shock of PTSD one rainy day in his hotel room after a mission. Illya and Gaby aren't allowed to pick up the pieces but they do make the rest of the day infinitely better.)





	If the Lights Go Out, I Have a Candle(s)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been awhile. Nearly three years since I last published something in the TMFU tag (because that's when the movie came out. Feel old yet?) But, as I was going through some of my old writings, I found this uncompleted little story and decided to put it where it belongs. 
> 
> This was initially the first chapter of what was going to be another 5+1 Things story about the boys helping each other through confrontations from the past. Alas, I never did get around to actually writing the other chapters. But I suppose this chapter can stand on its own. 
> 
> We are the ones whose responsibility it is now to keep the fandom alive until that eventual sequel we've been promised. I want to do my part too. I hope you enjoy.

The storm came suddenly and unexpectedly.

When the three UNCLE agents had first walked into the charming Virginian bed and breakfast, the sky was a radiant blue. A few large clouds were bundled up near the horizon, like sheets kicked to the foot of the bed, but certainly nothing to suggest an oncoming rain.

As a gale picked up outside, the British agent detached from her companions and moved to distract the oblivious wife of Barry the Owner. The other two agents continued on to find the secret entrance to the underground, and fairly illegal, gambling casino in the expansive basement of the B&B. When the guards had refused passage to the two men (despite the amount of charm and negotiation the American was throwing at them) the Russian knocked them out quickly and neatly.

“Always so quick to violence,” the American thief noted in a rich, fair voice as he checked the silencer on his gun and then his lock-picking tools.

The Russian spy was not swift in his reply as he was the one dragging the unconscious bodies under the basement stairs where they would sufficiently be hidden in the shadows. When he stood, wiping his hands, he shot the American an annoyed glare. “If it were left to you and your pointless words, we would still be up in lobby,” he said with a much deeper and gruffer voice.

Napoleon Solo only shook his head at the flippant and harmless insult. He knew better than to counter with his own sarcastic barb. They’d never get on with their mission if they kept exchanging stereotypes. That and Illya Kuryakin had already moved to the other side of the unassuming wooden door, his gun out and at the ready. Oh well, another time perhaps.

They gave a nod to each other and Illya opened the door first, gun firing as he strode into the homemade casino. The two men guarding this side of the door went down without so much as a yelp, fingers never reaching the guns in their holsters. The players in the room all turned to see the two agents: the American’s expression almost apologetic; the Russian’s hostile. Barry the Owner fired at them from one of the card tables and then the other gamblers scrambled to pull out their firearms as well.

The ensuing gunfight was conveniently drowned out by the pitter-patter of raindrops falling down on the roof of the B&B. The owner’s wife tutted at the loss of a beautiful day. She offered Gaby Teller an umbrella for when she would leave for an the errand – that Gaby made up – and then continued on with her merry rant about the leaking faucet and her son away from home who rarely called.

Below their feet, the powerful blond swung a mighty fist and knocked one elegantly dressed man off his feet, the silver pistol gone from his hands before his body hit the floor. In the same motion, Illya fired off another bullet and took out a stout man aiming at the Russian’s dark-haired partner. Contrarily, said lithe man dodged passed flying bullets and grabbing hands, snapping off a shot or two, but primarily focused on getting to the back room and the safe locked within it.

Within moments, Napoleon was crouched in front of the door as Illya beat back anyone who strayed too close within his reach. The giant of a man powered through after his partner to the back of the casino and easily threw two tables onto their sides as means of sufficient cover for him and Napoleon. He then planted himself in this spot, refusing to move; refusing to let anyone pass.

Napoleon glanced back at the chaos behind him (and the barrier of man and table alike that protected him) and then carefully chose the right picks for the lock. It was almost as large and impressive as the lock Napoleon had picked back when Illya and he had first been pushed together as partners. Just as he had then, he opened this lock with the same rapid deftness.

With a spring in his step and a jolly hum in his throat, Napoleon strolled into the back office of the Barry the Owner and closed the door behind him. It wasn’t enough to drown out the screams of terror and pain currently being produced by those unfortunate enough to tangle with the Red Peril, but it did sufficiently block the imagery of it.

The safe wasn’t even hidden, and that was just bad form. It had been placed in plain sight in the corner of the room rather than behind the small oak desk. Paperwork in drooping, disorganized stacks had been placed on top of the safe with various objects of weight (mostly empty coffee cups) ensuring the stacks didn’t topple. But this wasn’t the paperwork Napoleon was looking for.

He got down on one knee before the safe and laid his collection of tools on the ground beside him. His movements were not hurried as he carefully donned a stethoscope – the safe was far from advanced. Clearly the owner did not feel the need to buy a better one, and had chosen instead to upgrade the door’s lock rather than the safe. Napoleon frowned as he concentrated on the ticks and clicks of the rotating dial over the much louder shouts from guns and cries of people. Illya had no regard for the meticulous work Napoleon did on these missions.

It was only a matter minutes (not his fastest time on this kind of model but good enough; the noise really hampered him) before the lock gave its final welcoming click and the door swung open. Napoleon grabbed all the paperwork inside, already well aware of its nature. His boss had informed him of the weapon shipments the owner of the casino fulfilled. Included in the paperwork he stuffed into a small bag he kept next to his holster would be names of employers, employees, buyers, sellers, and lists of merchandise currently in stock and to come.

Apparently the owner’s bed and breakfast was a cover for his underground casino which funded his weaponry shop. Not exactly a hard trail to follow. It was all a rather convoluted plot, actually, but then, not all bad guys could be geniuses.

A smug grin on his face (really, it’s not like it ever truly faded), Napoleon closed the safe, put his tools away, and straightened with a proud sparkle in his eyes. He didn’t even flinch when a body crashed through the office door and slammed into the desk. With a sigh, Napoleon turned to survey the moaning form of Barry the Owner of the B&B, the illegal casino, and the weapon’s shop – and the shower of splinters around him.

Illya popped into view a second later. He glanced once at the owner (who showed no indication of getting to his feet any time soon) and then lifted his gaze to Napoleon.

The giant of a man barely looked winded. The cap askew on his head and the disheveled jacket were the only signs that Illya had actually been in a fight. It didn’t seem like anyone had managed to land a single blow on the Russian. Napoleon supposed he could give silent thanks for that.

“Time to go, Cowboy,” Illya said, brusque as usual.

“Yes, I’d say so,” Napoleon agreed as he carefully stepped around the motionless owner.

Illya waved for him to hurry and then the two were jogging through the casino, trying not to trip over the scattered bodies. Waverly would come over to pick up the criminals shortly, likely much to the surprise of Barry’s wife.

“You never take the easy way out, do you, Peril,” Napoleon asked with a hint of awe. Just a hint. He didn’t want to fan Illya’s ego or elicit another painful tirade of how Russian spy training and performance far outmatch that of the Americas.

“Is not Russian way,” Illya said predictably and with a mischievous glint in his eyes. That seemed to be his answer for every observation Napoleon made lately. He did it on purpose, Napoleon guessed, just to annoy.

It was still amusing though and Napoleon felt a real smile crack through his mask. Illya managed to hide his own smirk by allowing Napoleon to go up the stairs before him.

They were greeted back in the lobby by a rather strained looking Gaby and a still-talking wife. And rain. There was a lot of rain outside. Napoleon couldn’t help but stare at the downfall as Gaby graciously excused herself and gave her farewell, the gifted umbrella tight in her hands.

Together, the three exited the B&B and paused under the eave of the building for a moment. The rain came straight down in a heavy curtain, making it impossible to see beyond a few feet. Unfortunately, the trio had taken three separate cabs – to give the impression that they were best friends meeting up for a reunion after so many years and looking for a nice inn to stay – so as to not arouse suspicion. If the mission had misfired, the plan was to retreat to the small wood behind the building. Now though, with all the rain, a cab wouldn’t be able to see them unless they stepped out directly into its headlights.

Since that choice was clearly out, they would have to walk. All the way back to their hotel. It wasn’t a particularly long walk. It just certainly wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.

“Next time,” Gaby suddenly announced, umbrella held close to her chest. “I go and do all the shooting and one of you stays with the gossip.”

“You don’t have the proper lock-picking skills as I do,” Napoleon replied matter-of-factly, yet he still somehow made it sound condescending.

“And you still need practice with your aim,” Illya said gently, almost encouragingly.

Gaby did not look at either at them when she gave an irritated huff and then opened the umbrella. Before either of her boys could huddle underneath it with her, she marched out into the rain, umbrella held high and chastising.

Napoleon and Illya watched her go with different levels of incredulity in their expressions.

Illya moved first. Grumbling in Russian under his breath (something about the stubbornness of women, if Napoleon heard correctly), he lowered his cap over his eyes, snapped the collar of his jacket up, and took off after the small German. The rain consumed him immediately.

Napoleon ran a hand through his hair partly with frustration and part resignation. He tucked his hands into his pockets and hitched his shoulders up. Then he stepped out from under his shelter and into the rain. Within seconds, his clothes were made dark and heavy with water, droplets even sneaking into his boots and dampening his socks. His hair plastered against his head; the gel washed out and the natural curl gone.

With a few long strides through the muddied ground, Napoleon caught up with Illya who had curbed his gait to keep a few steps behind the still tangibly fuming Gaby. Napoleon looked up at his partner, the larger man’s hands now tucked under his arms, and saw the rain had not spared the spy any more than it had the thief.

Illya had his ever present scowl on his face but he looked more like a puppy caught out in a storm rather than a dangerous KGB agent capable of taking down a room full of criminals. Napoleon’s smile was back despite how miserable he felt.

“I’ll teach her how to pick locks,” Napoleon offered. Illya met his gaze, took in the state of him, and his eyes softened; the glacier blue untouched by the dark clouds above them. “I like gossip.”

“I am aware,” Illya answered.

He took off his hat and unceremoniously plopped it down on Napoleon’s head. The slighter man would have put up more of a protest if the cap hadn’t blessedly kept the rain out of his eyes.

The guilt at having two soaking pups behind her must have melted the ice on Gaby’s shoulders, because it was only a few minutes later that she slowed her pace to let the boys catch up to her and then she raised the umbrella up high so all three heads could fit (even though Illya had to duck to do so).

Not that it did much good at this point anyway. Both men were saturated and the wind had picked up, slanting the rain just enough to get them all wet despite the umbrella’s promised protection. Even Illya was starting to shiver (albeit it was minute but Napoleon noticed) by the time the warm glow of the hotel could be seen through the downpour.

The three agents shuffled through the double doors and into the quaint lobby. Gaby gave a wordless smile to the clerk behind the front desk, Napoleon presented his ever-charming grin, and Illya didn’t glare.

“I kept the furnace going in my room,” Napoleon announced as they pressed into the tiny elevator.

The unspoken agreement to all meet in Napoleon’s suite for the after-mission report write-up (and maybe a celebratory drink or two) was set the moment Illya ignored the other buttons in the elevator in favor of the one which would take them to Napoleon’s floor. They rode up in silence, occasionally sniffling, or wiping away a stray drop from their brow or nose.

Gaby was openly shivering and led the way to Napoleon’s room. Any other day, Napoleon would have given a tool to either Illya or Gaby and instructed them to pick the lock to his room. For practice. Today however, with everyone dripping onto the thinly carpeted floors and tugging their drenched coats as close as they could to their bodies, Napoleon thought his desire to teach his friends would go unappreciated.

He quickly unlocked the door and they crowded in.

Gaby gave a tremendous sign of relief when warm air hit them in the face. Napoleon felt the cold tension leave his stiffened shoulders and even Illya seemed content judging by the way he straightened out of his hunched position. One lamp on a corner table in the living room shone invitingly and made the room appear cozy.

“Clothes off,” Napoleon instructed as he handed Illya’s cap back. “I’ll get blankets, towels, and whatever spare clothes I can find.” He strode towards his bedroom. Gaby and Illya were already peeling their jackets off, though Illya took the time to hang them up on the coatrack rather than let them fall to the floor as Gaby seemed perfectly happy to do. “Might be a little harder for you, Peril.”

“I am not picky,” Illya responded, hanging onto Gaby’s elbow as she pried her shoes off.

“Yes you are.”

“To avoid getting sick, I am not.”

Napoleon chuckled and flicked on the bedroom light. The simple chandelier hanging in the middle of the room flared to life.

Then the lights flickered.

There was an electric snap as one light flashed and another dimmed. The bulbs clicked and popped as the lights sputtered. A blue spark zapped at the base of one of the bulbs and this one instantly turned black and died.

Napoleon couldn’t look away. And he couldn’t control his breathing.

He was back in that electrocution chair, feet submerged in water, limbs strapped tight to the chair, chest constricted; head taut. He was watching that single bulb circle around his head, the light and shadows playing across his face with every rotation as Uncle Rudi enthused about his photographs of torture. He could feel the electricity course through every inch of his body, a constant buzzing energy that twisted and lurched within him and would not be released. He could hear the sporadic pops of electricity, smell the smoke of his own burning flesh.

And suddenly he was in the dark.

Breathing raggedly, sweat mixing with the rain still clinging to his brow, Napoleon stared at the chandelier that had been turned off. Illya was next to him, his hand covering the light switch. He was looking at Napoleon, eyes as wide and bright and _horrified_ as they had been when he had first rescued Napoleon from that chair, and had realized what Rudi had done.

Napoleon made no other move than to tremble where he stood, hands clenched at his sides, fingernails digging into the sweaty flesh of his palms.

“Solo?” Illya cautioned, voice low and gruff. He was worried.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Gaby asked, stepping closer, bare feet silent on the carpet.

“Not now,” Illya said, voice calm but firm enough to dissuade Gaby from questioning further.

She furrowed her brow at Napoleon in thought, and then horror registered across her face and she covered her hushed gasp with her hands. She had no doubt been briefed about what had happened to her partners when she had betrayed them for the sake of her mission to capture the Vinciguerras and their nuclear bomb.

Illya lifted one hand to quiet her and she gripped it tightly. They made no move to touch Napoleon as his memories repeated. He did not move, not even to look at either one of them. He was struggling to get his mask back up, but every time he was close – close to flashing that smile again – a memory of the pain, of Rudi’s face, of having no control of his body, flared up in his mind again and the mask came tumbling down amid rapid heartbeats and frantic breaths.

Illya let his hand fall away from the switch. He took a step back out of the room and away from Napoleon. He did not take his eyes off the man.

“I will talk to the clerk,” he said stiffly, standing almost as tensely as Napoleon was. “See what caused this. How to fix it.”

Napoleon gave no indication that he heard. Illya clenched his jaw and his fists tightened. “I will be right back.”

He exchanged a glance with Gaby, concern etched in her features and the way she still had his hand clasped between hers.

“Do not turn on the lights,” he whispered to her. She bobbed her head in a nod and released him.

With one last look at the American standing prone in the doorway, Illya turned and silently left the suite, leaving his coat and hat behind.

Gaby stayed rooted to the spot, afraid to leave Napoleon alone, afraid to touch him. She was the cause of his PTSD after all. She didn’t know to fix that, or even if she could.

“Napoleon,” she tried, hearing the waver in her own voice. “Come on, let’s… let’s get you warmed up.”

“I think,” Napoleon started, making her jump. He stopped when his voice caught, swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again. “I think I’ll pick us up some dinner.” His voice sounded stronger, but he had yet to turn around. “My mother has quite the recipe for a soup that I think is the best on rainy days.”

“Okay,” Gaby said gently, like a mother to an upset child. “Okay, what can I do?”

Napoleon spun on his heel and he had already walked passed Gaby by the time she had registered the movement. She flinched nonetheless and turned to follow but stopped when Napoleon gave no sidelong glance to her or even threw back one of his smiles.

“Get some water ready. And help yourself to the shower and dry clothes.”

The words were spoken in the usual cheerful, and borderline flirtatious, cadence she had come to expect from Napoleon Solo. But they sounded so empty this time. It made her heart ache.

Napoleon picked up the umbrella and opened the door. “I just need a few more ingredients. I won’t be long.”

He left. Gaby was alone in the suite with only one glowing lamp to chase away the darkening shadows as the oncoming evening and the dark clouds choked out the last traces of sunlight.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

 

It took Napoleon an hour longer to come back to his hotel room that evening. The first thirty minutes or so was spent standing in the back alley behind the hotel: the umbrella hanging loose and unopened in his hand, his face tilted up towards the sky as rain cascaded down onto closed eyes and an open mouth. He stood perfectly still except for the all-consuming trembling and the heaving of his chest as he struggled just to breathe without hyperventilating.

Rain pooled in his lashes and trickled down his face. Drops fell into his mouth and the memories flashing behind closed eyes turned the water sour on his tongue. His clothes were soaked through to the skin but it was impossible to tell if he was shivering from the cold or from his panic attack.

Thirty minutes or so in the chilling rain with only the sound of his own heartbeat and the soft melodic patter of droplets hitting the ground, and Napoleon finally found the strength to open his eyes and move his feet.

By the time he reached the nearest grocery store, his breathing had returned to normal. By the time he left with two bags of fresh produce and herbs, he was able to keep the umbrella up over his head without his hand shaking. By the time he made it back to the hotel with the aid of streetlamps, he was able to smile at the clerk without having it slip.

His shoes squelched with every steps and he left tiny puddles in his wake as he walked up the stairs to his floor, but soon he was standing in front of his door.

It swung open almost before he could come to a full stop in front of it.

Illya stood in the middle of the doorway, practically filling up the small space with his towering physique. Dressed in a dry, loose long-sleeved shirt and dark slacks, his body was shrouded in the shadows of the darkened room beyond the doorway, but the light from the hallway caught in his eyes and seemed to ignite a fire beneath the icy blue. Illya’s gaze seemed to literally glimmer as he regarded (or rather, examined) Napoleon, taking note of the dripping clothes, the grocery bags, and the hollow eyes.

Though the pose appeared ominous, Napoleon knew there was no threat here. The fire in Illya’s eyes was not one bred from anger (well, maybe a little anger. Napoleon _had_ run off without telling Illya and then had taken his time in returning). No, Illya’s gaze was warm, not hot. And the pinched point between his brows made his worry obvious.

Napoleon looked up at this gentle bear of a man, not in surprise, but with familiarity, as if to say, _of course it’s you._ Somehow, that fact alone was able to lift a smile to Napoleon’s lips. Somehow, a little weight was able to lift from his chest.

“Evening,” Napoleon greeted and squeezed around Illya.

The larger man sidestepped out of the way and bumped up against the wall, afraid to even brush up against Napoleon. The sheer fragility he had seen in the slighter man’s face before the smile had marginally brightened it made him think the slightest touch could bring Napoleon’s carefully constructed composure crumbling down, and Napoleon with it. His hands clenched and unclenched uselessly at his sides.

“You’re late,” was all he could think to say as he closed the door quietly behind Napoleon.

“Can’t be late when I didn’t give a time for my return,” Napoleon said with his usual level of arrogance.

It almost made Illya believe nothing was wrong and that the trouble had passed. How he wanted to believe that were true.

Oh, how Napoleon wanted to believe it too.

Fortunately, there was a new distraction to take his mind off his own weakness and the unsettling way Illya trailed after him – not quite hovering but definitely something akin to it.

A soft and gentle glow came from the main living room, as if a fire were merrily burning away in a fireplace. Curious, Napoleon moved into the room without pausing to remove his clothes or put down his ingredients.

Candles. Dozens of candles. On the dining table and the coffee table, lining the kitchen counter and placed in the empty spaces on shelves. Candles peeking at him from the desk and nightstand in his bedroom. Candles burning merrily in the single bathroom and propped up on the corner of the bathtub.

Everything was bright and moving with every flicker of the flame. Everything was doused in subdued oranges and yellows and reds as if the room was submerged in the simmering coals of a fireplace. It was warm and quiet and absolutely beautiful.

Speaking of beautiful, Gaby glided out of the kitchen with hair dark and wet from a shower and shimmering like obsidian in the candlelight. She had changed into her pajamas, the white fabric rippling with the light from the candles and turning her into a creature of flame; a goddess of fire.

“Just in time,” Gaby enthused, taking the bags from Napoleon’s suddenly lax grip. She met his dazed stare and smiled. “The water’s almost at a boil. I’ll chop these up–” she hefted the bags up to get a better grip, “and you take a shower. You can make us dinner when you’re properly dried and dressed.”

As gracefully as she came, Gaby left, gliding back into the kitchen where a large metal pot was sitting on the stove, the water inside boiling away merrily. Thin tendrils of steam wafted up into the air; the candles’ light cast mesmerizing shadows against it.

“That is not my pot,” Napoleon said dumbly, blinking at the cookware.

“Hmm? Oh,” Gaby mused, glancing back at Napoleon as she started taking vegetables out of the bags. “No, I borrowed it from the chef of the hotel. Said I wanted to make some soup and he let me borrow it.”

“Huh,” Napoleon said.

“Granted, I may have embellished my story a bit,” Gaby continued impishly. “Might have mentioned something about having a child who caught cold in all this rain. And only my recipe would do to cure him.”

“He bought that?”

“For the full price.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of you.”

Gaby shot him a withering glare. Napoleon decided not to push her with his usual sarcasm since the little chop-shop girl _was_ currently holding a knife in her hand as she sliced onions and diced tomatoes.

“And the candles?” Napoleon asked, purposefully changing the subject. He waved a hand at the brilliant pinpricks of light scattered all about the room.

“That was Illya,” Gaby answered, looking back down at her work, a small smirk lifting the side of her mouth.

“How romantic,” Napoleon commented with some jest, though the widening of his eyes suggested he was more surprised than anything else.

Illya, standing a few feet back and keeping absolutely still while his partners talked, ducked his head. “Practical, not romantic.”

“I’d say practical stopped fifteen candles ago.”

Another glare, two in under a minute, was shot at Napoleon. Oddly enough, talking like this, being like this with the two most important people in his world, was incredibly therapeutic. The tension eased from his shoulders and back, and his smile was easy and bright. The memories of Uncle Rudi and that accursed chair were dissolving into shadows at the back of his mind, as unassuming as the ones playing on the walls of the hotel room.

“The clerk at the front desk gave him some when he went to ask about the lights,” Gaby supplied from the kitchen, moving to the peppers and carrots with skilled precision.

“The clerk said the storm is affecting the circuitry. Ours is not the only light to have blown. They cannot control the electrical surges,” Illya explained matter-of-factly.

“Illya decided it wasn’t enough candles and bought some more,” Gaby finished as if Illya’s explanation hadn’t interrupted her account.

“You didn’t ask the chef?” Napoleon asked wryly.

“Why would I ask chef?” Illya questioned with all seriousness.

“He sounds to be quite the giving fellow, is all.”

“I do not think a cook would have candles.”

“Ah well, you don’t have the charm to lie into getting something for free anyway.”

“No, I leave the lying to you. It is suitable for a thief.”

“What about me?” Gaby asked, brows raised pointedly; a look of vexation making her expression sharper than the knife twirling idly in her fingers. “How do you think I got this pot, Mr. Kuryakin?”

If Illya seemed uncomfortable before, standing in his stiff position a few feet back, he was definitely distressed now. Wide eyes flickered to Gaby and he swallowed nervously upon realizing the meaning of his words. Somehow, the giant of a man seemed to shrink as he withdrew defensively into himself.

“I apologize,” he said hurriedly. “I did not mean –”

Napoleon laughed. Honest to god, laughed. Gaby and Illya snapped their attention to him instantly.

“I should be the one apologizing, Peril,” Napoleon said, voice jittery from his laughter and the shivers that were persistent in reminding him that he was still very much wet and fairly cold. “That was my fault. I’m afraid I set you up for that one.” The arm wrapped around his stomach was only partly there to procure some warmth. “Although, to be fair, you made it far too easy.”

Gaby sighed with open exasperation. She kneaded her fingertips against her forehead but there was a smile on her lips and a relaxed set to her shoulders. Illya was not so pleased and he frowned severely at Napoleon.

“You try to make a fool of me,” he fumed, the candlelight lending fire to his eyes.

“I didn't try. I succeeded,” Napoleon replied casually.

The muscle in Illya’s jaw jumped and his gaze hardened.

“Enough,” Gaby sighed, not without amusement. “Can’t we have one meal where you too aren’t hell bent on snapping each other’s neck?”

“Lovely visual, Gaby, thank you. You may have just put me off my soup,” Napoleon sniffed disdainfully.

“Cowboy starts it,” Illya retorted, almost in a whine. “Every time he starts it.”

“Doesn’t matter who starts it. I’m finishing it,” Gaby snapped with a challenge in her tone daring them to protest. When both men deflated, Gaby gave a resolute nod and then pointed to Illya, “You. Get room service to bring us some bread and meat. Doesn’t matter which, you pick. And you,” she pointed to Napoleon, “take a shower and get into some dry clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

Illya nodded quickly like a chastised child and Napoleon raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Off with the both of you,” Gaby concluded, waving them both off.

Dismissed, Illya shuffled over to the service phone and Napoleon went to the bathroom. He noted with a small smile that his pajamas and robe were already laid out on the sink and there was a towel hanging at the ready near the bathtub door.

“No one is answering the phone,” Illya’s voice announced from behind him. Napoleon turned his head to face him.

“I will speak with the chef directly.”

“If you mention Gaby’s child, you may get a discount.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Napoleon chuckled and an emotion he couldn’t quite place flickered across Illya’s face. Whatever it was, the result was a softening of the Russian’s features. But there was something else. There was still a reserved demeanor to the larger man, something like hesitation that made his glacier gaze flinch away from Napoleon if he found himself staring too long; something that made him retract away from Napoleon whenever the slighter man swerved a little too close. Something like caution, wariness, fear.

Napoleon blinked owlishly at his companion. Yes, fear. But not a fear of him. A fear for him. Illya was still looking at him with those eyes that had first realized back in that secret torture chamber, the damage Rudi had done. There were the same eyes that had been staring at him when the lights in the chandelier had blown out.

Illya was afraid Napoleon was still suffering. He clearly didn’t know what to do with this information and he clearly didn’t want to make it worse so he had kept his distance, had avoided even brushing up against Napoleon for fear of sending the man spiraling back down into his nightmares.

Something told Napoleon that if he didn’t initiate contact first, Illya would continue to tiptoe around him; participating in their usual banter to achieve the semblance of normality but refusing to draw any closer for fear of hurting Napoleon.

It was all very foolish and selfless, and infuriatingly typical of Illya.

Curious (and slightly apprehensive) of the extended scrutiny currently being performed by Napoleon on him, Illya quickly decided to say something reassuring in case Napoleon was again being afflicted by visions of torture and pain.

“I will be right here when you are done.”

Napoleon’s heart gave a stutter and he released a breath he had – perhaps didn’t know he had – been holding. Here he thought he had recovered sufficiently, what with the regained ability to smile, to joke, and to hold himself up without the crippling desire to just curl up in a trembling ball. But this simple phrase uttered by this far from simple man proved that what Napoleon had took for relief was false.

For surely, _this_ is what relief felt like, looking up at the tall blond and seeing only warmth and assurance there. To hear those words – _I will be right here_ – and to trust them utterly and completely; to know he wasn’t alone because Illya would be right there with him.

His knees felt weak but his voice was strong and his smile brilliant when he reached out a hand to touch Illya’s arm, “I know.”

Illya didn’t move for a long second. Then he looked away with smile and a huff.

“Take your shower. Gaby’s right, you’re freezing. I can feel through my shirt.”

“You both seem very keen on having me take my clothes off,” Napoleon said, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestive motion. “And what with all these candles I can’t help but wonder.”

“You shouldn’t think so much. Might hurt yourself.”

“You wound me, Peril.”

“ _I’m_ going to hurt you if you don’t take a damn shower, Napoleon!” Gaby shouted from the other room.

“Going, love. Just had to tell Peril here to get chicken for our soup.” Napoleon gave Illya a wink. Illya groaned and turned away. Napoleon beamed after him.

He was actually surprised to find that his gaze followed Illya all the way to the hallway. Then he continued to stand there in the bathroom doorway until he heard the door close. His heart made an uncomfortable beat and his next breath was hard to take past the sudden lump in his throat.

Foolish, to start a panic the moment Illya left.

Napoleon stepped into the bathroom with a shake of his head. His hand automatically reached out for the light switch before his brain could warn him about the last time he switched on a light in this room.

Unexpectedly, instead of finding the cool plastic of the switch, his fingertips touched a much rougher material. Perplexed, Napoleon squinted at the switch as the light from the candles danced and made his shadow waver.

Tape. Someone had put tape over the switch to ensure no one would be able to activate it and turn the light on. Napoleon swiveled around and did a full sweep of the hotel room with his eyes to see that tape had been placed on every switch, most likely even the ones he couldn’t see from his vantage point in the bathroom doorway.

“That was Illya too,” Gaby said, meeting Napoleon’s eye from across the room. Napoleon couldn’t say for certain how long she had been watching him. “He didn’t want it happening again.”

She didn’t have to specify what _it_ meant.

“He’s gone soft,” Napoleon murmured almost affectionately.

“I’m afraid so,” Gaby concurred. “Can’t get a refund now, I suppose.”

“I suppose not.”

And really, that was for the best. For all of them.

Chest full of warmth and body shaking with cold, Napoleon finally took his shower, letting the hot water knead feeling back into his limbs. When he was done, he quickly changed into the waiting dry clothes and wrapped the robe tightly around him.

Surrounded by steam, he stepped out to the pleasant sound of chatter between Illya and Gaby as Illya carved the procured chicken and Gaby tossed a salad of greens. His friends greeted him amiably and made room for him to finally start his soup. Elbows knocking, hips bumping, and feet tripping, the three moved about the kitchen to ready the meal and set the table.

At last, in the glow of dozens of candles, slowly working their way down the wick, the three ate dinner. Napoleon was only mildly offended when his team exclaimed their surprise at having such a good soup.


End file.
